


Specimen

by ShimmerVee



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Character Study, Chronic Illness, Gen, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-27
Updated: 2018-11-27
Packaged: 2019-09-01 08:38:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16761733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShimmerVee/pseuds/ShimmerVee
Summary: Steve checks in with Captain America.or: okay so like what if steve was too strong and sad about it





	Specimen

Steve breathes in. And in, and in, and in. And he doesn’t cough, and his eyes don’t swim, and then he breathes out.

His own reflection is a suckerpunch. Between star-spangled days and stakeouts at night, he can’t remember the last time he had reason to look into his own eyes. He caught a glimpse of them today and didn’t know the name of the person looking back. Features carved and curled, hair thick, eyes ancient. Blue. Blue-grey. More colourful than they should have been. More tired than he thought he was. But he was. He is.

The weight of the world couldn’t fit on his shoulders, so they’d broadened. Words to encourage a nation would only fall limp from the lips he was born with, so they’d filled out. This jaw is tight, these veins firm, this heartbeat regular. This body is not his, but it couldn’t have been anyone else’s. It was meant for him - his by design. Perfect soldier, good man. And this is what he has to show for it. It was both a reward and a conditional offer.

Room are too small sometimes. He’s a foot closer to the ceiling and when it’s only him and the silence it can make him feel too much like a trapped animal. He’s closer to the shadows in the corners, now. The patterns in the plaster look less mesmerizing up here. Like constellations, he looks to them to find a path out of his own head.

The bed is too firm and too soft all at once. There are so few people, he had thought, that could know what this feels like. That would survive to know what it feels like. As much as he appreciates being around people now who _know,_ they cannot _feel_ the way this body can. Under his fingertips he feels each cotton fiber, the groove of each fleck of lint. He feels vibrations through the floor from down the hall. He feels everything around him like an echo in the ocean.

When he was smaller, younger, more breakable, his nerves reacted to all stimuli like chalkboards in protest of nails. Anger lead to tremors that kept him up at night. Dust lead to sneezing fits lead to bloody noses. A cough would rattle from his throat to his hips and kick him from the inside out. The dusty floor was a bully he couldn’t get away from. The ceiling was a faraway friend.

He’s in his head. He’s shivering. He’s five-two and trembling towards the thermostat, a sickly ache where every muscle should be. His hand brushes the wall but the temperature doesn’t change. Further. He can only stretch so far before his poor excuse for a body sighs inward and he’s on the floor for the rest of the afternoon.

It’s decades later. It was only yesterday. He runs hot now.

He feels a hand on his arm and can't reconcile the eyes looking at him with the lack of pulse running through it.

He feels a rush of blood under his cheeks as music swells around him.

He feels the world tilting towards an icy end.

The pressure in the cabin is shattered as a roar louder than a machine rips into him. In less time than it takes to blink, he’s in bed listening to the radio. Before the broadcast is over, infamy and fame are playing musical chairs and he's listening to his own blood pushing relentlessly through borrowed veins. But when did the roaring stop? When did it find the time to get this quiet?

**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this piece, you can follow my [tumblr](https://shimmervee.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/shimmervee)!


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